Sit down - No.1
Sit down.
I’m going to tell you a story.
I realize that, yes, you did say that you weren’t interested, but now I’m asking as your parent, saying “Harry, sit down and listen.” I mean it.
This is the story that I offered to tell you the other day, the one I said Cousin Amanda would rate higher than just the “5” that she awarded to my “Teddy Bear” story.
Also, to repeat what I told you when I made my offer, it’s the one from my early teenage years, when I was in junior high, like you. And yes, reading about Xanthe and Alastor and, especially, Marpessa (in Troy by Adèle Geras) is what reminded me of it.
Specifically, it was in late September of my eighth-grade year when someone – can’t remember whether a boy or girl – told me that Kim Brawn (not her real name) – a ninth grader – “liked” me.
So, the next time I passed her in the hall between classes, I took the fateful step of saying, “Hi Kim.” She gave me a big smile and said hello!
After that thrill, one of my thoughts was, “Maybe I shouldn’t be so nervous about my acne. Seems like it isn’t going to be such a problem for my social life after all.”
Those sentiments had a lot to do with who Kim was – a ninth grader – and also with her looks. Passing her in the hall that day, I was looking straight at her for the first time, seeing blond hair cut in a bob surrounding a heart shaped face. I was stunned, to say the least.
After football practice the next day, just when I was hanging up my jock strap (in my locker, which was in the hallway outside the locker rooms because all the inside lockers were given to ninth graders) she was suddenly there, right beside me, saying “Hi Ed!”
I was embarrassed that she might actually see my jock strap, so I froze. But after a moment I loosened up, and we started to get to know each other.
The next step in my junior-high days was always the same: the boy and girl began to parade around the halls, with the boy’s arm around the girl. (Don’t know if this happens in your school??)
It took me a day or two of trying to stumble along next to her as we went between classes, and then I got up the courage to put my arm around her. She accepted this, and it sure made walking together a lot easier.
At this point, I was baffled about what course to take with our budding relationship. Of course, I was fixated on what sort of touching should take place next. She, on the other hand, was at least capable of making suggestions for activities, such as coming over to her house after school.
And now we get to the meat of the matter, what happened at her house … and what could have happened.
The first time I came, I was introduced to her mother and her brother, Dan. Kim’s mom looked familiar; probably I had seen her at sporting events involving Dan, like Little League baseball. Dan I knew already; after all, he was only a year younger (which was another embarrassing thing – growing up together and then dating his sister).
Then, Kim took me up to her bedroom, and we sat down on her bed to talk, only to have her mother shout up to us from the kitchen, “Kim, you should know you’re not allowed to be in the bedroom with Ed, so come back down here right now!” That was really embarrassing, because I figured that Mrs. Brawn thought I should have known better, too.
Of course, we still wanted to be by ourselves, so we went down to the basement, and started to play ping-pong. We talked while we played, and I remember one thing she said that, though typically adolescent, is still a tender memory.
She had asked what I did during summer vacation, and I had described the house in Petoskey, so she responded by telling about her family’s cottage on a nearby lake. Then, she mentioned that spending all day down by the water always made for a deep tan in the summer. Looking at her opposite me, in shorts, I replied, “I can see that. You’re still really tan.”
Geras’ lines about Marpessa do a much better job of it, but for me, that memory triggers certain, shall we say, “longings,” and Marpessa’s affair brought it back – and gave me an idea to share with you.
After a while, the ball skittered off the table and under a bunch of belongings stored in a corner, and we had to crawl around looking for it. It was only a moment or two before Mrs. Brawn was on the alert, “What’s going on down there? I thought you were playing ping-pong?”
I realized that so long as she heard the sound of the ping-pong ball, she figured that there couldn’t be any hanky-panky going on. Of course, we protested that we were only looking for the ball.
I was actually relieved by her mom’s intrusion, because it took me off the hook. Down in the basement, I was becoming increasingly anxious about my old fear: what should happen next when it comes to “touching.” (There’s another “basement touching” story, from my high-school days, that I may inflict on you, sometime.) With Mrs. Brawn so obviously on the lookout, I didn’t need to worry about whether to take action on my plan of taking Kim in my arms and kissing her.
But what if I had done it anyway? Couldn’t I have made a game of it? And, if I had, wouldn’t that have been a surefire way of enlisting Kim’s cooperation?
Suppose that, when the silly summer talk had run its course, I had said, “What if we change sides after each serve?”
She might have replied, “What for?” “You’ll see,” I would have said, and then made my serve.
Before the next serve, I would have begun walking around the table toward her. She might have hesitated, and I would have said, “C’mon!” and gestured at her with my hand, only – and this is key – beckoned her around my side, not the other side.
She would have approached, probably smiling, and just before our paths crossed, I would have put my arms out to her. Her arms would have come up, and I would have brought her in to me, her faced turned up to mine, smiling more broadly.
And that could have been the story of my first kiss, to be followed by more and more of them after each serve. (But never for more than a moment or two, so as not to arouse Mrs. Brawn’s suspicions!)
It would, I feel sure, quickly have become a very interesting game: trying to see how much touching we could get in without setting off her mom. Most of all, it would have been a brilliant way to break the ice, to dispel all that anxiety about touching.
The beauty of it is, thanks to Mrs. Brawn, we simply couldn’t have gotten ourselves in the kind of trouble that Alastor got Marpessa into, could we? (I’m sure I would have tried to figure out a way to do something still more intimate with Kim. Perhaps I would have found some private location, like Marpessa and Alastor, though that’s difficult in the typical environment of a junior-high teenager.)
One thing it almost certainly would have done: prolong our very brief flirtation. As things actually occurred, after only a month, she got bored with me (a guy without the nerve to kiss her) and moved on to another of my eighth-grade friends.
The shocked disappointment I felt when that happened is probably the single strongest memory I have of those years. Again, as with the story of the botched party invitation of the year before, I resolved never to get involved like that again – in other words I decided to quit, to give up.
It might have been different, but I cannot go back and change it. All that we can do is go forward, and for you, “forward” just happens to be … eighth grade!
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
By the way, this isn’t the first time I’ve mentioned Kim to you. Though you may not recall, I’ve mentioned her life – a tragedy – in connection with what I’ve confided to you about alcoholism.
For some reason, perhaps tied in with her mother, who committed suicide, Kim ended up an alcoholic. Even though she had help, she could not shake the disease, and she died of liver failure at age 40.
I doubt that it would have made any difference in that whole sad story had I had the presence of mind to initiate the little game I just described. Yes, it might have led to a lasting friendship between us, and we might always have kept in touch, but I imagine the roots of her family’s problems went much deeper than I could ever hope to reach. I do know that she had a loving husband, who cared for her through her last days, but could not save her.
My own life story, whatever it lacks, is obviously nothing so tragic as Kim’s. I regret not having been more courageous in eighth grade, and I cannot turn back the clock and have it to do again (even though reading about Marpessa makes me wish that Aphrodite would appear to whisk me back to my junior-high days). At least I am still here, living and breathing.
And my life story is only one-third written, isn’t that so? Remember that I’m going to live 150 years, right??
I may have been a quitter in seventh and eighth grade, but I can resolve never to quit again, regardless of what confronts me and however scary it may be.
May it be the same for you!
I’m going to tell you a story.
I realize that, yes, you did say that you weren’t interested, but now I’m asking as your parent, saying “Harry, sit down and listen.” I mean it.
This is the story that I offered to tell you the other day, the one I said Cousin Amanda would rate higher than just the “5” that she awarded to my “Teddy Bear” story.
Also, to repeat what I told you when I made my offer, it’s the one from my early teenage years, when I was in junior high, like you. And yes, reading about Xanthe and Alastor and, especially, Marpessa (in Troy by Adèle Geras) is what reminded me of it.
Specifically, it was in late September of my eighth-grade year when someone – can’t remember whether a boy or girl – told me that Kim Brawn (not her real name) – a ninth grader – “liked” me.
So, the next time I passed her in the hall between classes, I took the fateful step of saying, “Hi Kim.” She gave me a big smile and said hello!
After that thrill, one of my thoughts was, “Maybe I shouldn’t be so nervous about my acne. Seems like it isn’t going to be such a problem for my social life after all.”
Those sentiments had a lot to do with who Kim was – a ninth grader – and also with her looks. Passing her in the hall that day, I was looking straight at her for the first time, seeing blond hair cut in a bob surrounding a heart shaped face. I was stunned, to say the least.
After football practice the next day, just when I was hanging up my jock strap (in my locker, which was in the hallway outside the locker rooms because all the inside lockers were given to ninth graders) she was suddenly there, right beside me, saying “Hi Ed!”
I was embarrassed that she might actually see my jock strap, so I froze. But after a moment I loosened up, and we started to get to know each other.
The next step in my junior-high days was always the same: the boy and girl began to parade around the halls, with the boy’s arm around the girl. (Don’t know if this happens in your school??)
It took me a day or two of trying to stumble along next to her as we went between classes, and then I got up the courage to put my arm around her. She accepted this, and it sure made walking together a lot easier.
At this point, I was baffled about what course to take with our budding relationship. Of course, I was fixated on what sort of touching should take place next. She, on the other hand, was at least capable of making suggestions for activities, such as coming over to her house after school.
And now we get to the meat of the matter, what happened at her house … and what could have happened.
The first time I came, I was introduced to her mother and her brother, Dan. Kim’s mom looked familiar; probably I had seen her at sporting events involving Dan, like Little League baseball. Dan I knew already; after all, he was only a year younger (which was another embarrassing thing – growing up together and then dating his sister).
Then, Kim took me up to her bedroom, and we sat down on her bed to talk, only to have her mother shout up to us from the kitchen, “Kim, you should know you’re not allowed to be in the bedroom with Ed, so come back down here right now!” That was really embarrassing, because I figured that Mrs. Brawn thought I should have known better, too.
Of course, we still wanted to be by ourselves, so we went down to the basement, and started to play ping-pong. We talked while we played, and I remember one thing she said that, though typically adolescent, is still a tender memory.
She had asked what I did during summer vacation, and I had described the house in Petoskey, so she responded by telling about her family’s cottage on a nearby lake. Then, she mentioned that spending all day down by the water always made for a deep tan in the summer. Looking at her opposite me, in shorts, I replied, “I can see that. You’re still really tan.”
Geras’ lines about Marpessa do a much better job of it, but for me, that memory triggers certain, shall we say, “longings,” and Marpessa’s affair brought it back – and gave me an idea to share with you.
After a while, the ball skittered off the table and under a bunch of belongings stored in a corner, and we had to crawl around looking for it. It was only a moment or two before Mrs. Brawn was on the alert, “What’s going on down there? I thought you were playing ping-pong?”
I realized that so long as she heard the sound of the ping-pong ball, she figured that there couldn’t be any hanky-panky going on. Of course, we protested that we were only looking for the ball.
I was actually relieved by her mom’s intrusion, because it took me off the hook. Down in the basement, I was becoming increasingly anxious about my old fear: what should happen next when it comes to “touching.” (There’s another “basement touching” story, from my high-school days, that I may inflict on you, sometime.) With Mrs. Brawn so obviously on the lookout, I didn’t need to worry about whether to take action on my plan of taking Kim in my arms and kissing her.
But what if I had done it anyway? Couldn’t I have made a game of it? And, if I had, wouldn’t that have been a surefire way of enlisting Kim’s cooperation?
Suppose that, when the silly summer talk had run its course, I had said, “What if we change sides after each serve?”
She might have replied, “What for?” “You’ll see,” I would have said, and then made my serve.
Before the next serve, I would have begun walking around the table toward her. She might have hesitated, and I would have said, “C’mon!” and gestured at her with my hand, only – and this is key – beckoned her around my side, not the other side.
She would have approached, probably smiling, and just before our paths crossed, I would have put my arms out to her. Her arms would have come up, and I would have brought her in to me, her faced turned up to mine, smiling more broadly.
And that could have been the story of my first kiss, to be followed by more and more of them after each serve. (But never for more than a moment or two, so as not to arouse Mrs. Brawn’s suspicions!)
It would, I feel sure, quickly have become a very interesting game: trying to see how much touching we could get in without setting off her mom. Most of all, it would have been a brilliant way to break the ice, to dispel all that anxiety about touching.
The beauty of it is, thanks to Mrs. Brawn, we simply couldn’t have gotten ourselves in the kind of trouble that Alastor got Marpessa into, could we? (I’m sure I would have tried to figure out a way to do something still more intimate with Kim. Perhaps I would have found some private location, like Marpessa and Alastor, though that’s difficult in the typical environment of a junior-high teenager.)
One thing it almost certainly would have done: prolong our very brief flirtation. As things actually occurred, after only a month, she got bored with me (a guy without the nerve to kiss her) and moved on to another of my eighth-grade friends.
The shocked disappointment I felt when that happened is probably the single strongest memory I have of those years. Again, as with the story of the botched party invitation of the year before, I resolved never to get involved like that again – in other words I decided to quit, to give up.
It might have been different, but I cannot go back and change it. All that we can do is go forward, and for you, “forward” just happens to be … eighth grade!
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
By the way, this isn’t the first time I’ve mentioned Kim to you. Though you may not recall, I’ve mentioned her life – a tragedy – in connection with what I’ve confided to you about alcoholism.
For some reason, perhaps tied in with her mother, who committed suicide, Kim ended up an alcoholic. Even though she had help, she could not shake the disease, and she died of liver failure at age 40.
I doubt that it would have made any difference in that whole sad story had I had the presence of mind to initiate the little game I just described. Yes, it might have led to a lasting friendship between us, and we might always have kept in touch, but I imagine the roots of her family’s problems went much deeper than I could ever hope to reach. I do know that she had a loving husband, who cared for her through her last days, but could not save her.
My own life story, whatever it lacks, is obviously nothing so tragic as Kim’s. I regret not having been more courageous in eighth grade, and I cannot turn back the clock and have it to do again (even though reading about Marpessa makes me wish that Aphrodite would appear to whisk me back to my junior-high days). At least I am still here, living and breathing.
And my life story is only one-third written, isn’t that so? Remember that I’m going to live 150 years, right??
I may have been a quitter in seventh and eighth grade, but I can resolve never to quit again, regardless of what confronts me and however scary it may be.
May it be the same for you!
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